


ill for the holidays

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Trans Martin Blackwood, it's very soft, married jonmartin, soft jon, they make out, we love to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: “You know what I’ve just remembered?”“What?”“The Christmas you got ill while you were living in the archives,” Jon says, smile evident in his tone.  “Do you remember?”History repeats itself, often in cruel ways.  This time, however-- Jon's love and care remain a wonderful constant, as Martin finds himself once again ill on Christmas.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 21
Kudos: 232





	ill for the holidays

**Author's Note:**

> CW: illness, discussion of dysphoria
> 
> hi everyone!! consider this little sickfic an apology for the angst of the last one...I promise, this one is so fluffy it'll make your teeth ache <3
> 
> also, I know this timeline is not accurate--just imagine with me that the Prentiss incident happened later in the year in 2016, and Martin was stuck living in the archives during the holidays.
> 
> enjoy!!

“Bless you, darling,” Jon calls softly from the doorway of their bedroom, two steaming mugs of tea in his hands.

“Ergh,” is all Martin has the energy to reply before he pitches forward again, stifling three more harsh sneezes into his elbow before leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.

“Bless you again,” Jon says, handing him one of the steaming mugs. “And happy Christmas.”

Smiling through watery eyes, Martin carefully takes the mug. Jon cannot help but smile wider when the band on his left ring finger glints in the morning sun—the ring they had both decided would count as their Christmas presents this year.

“Happy Christmas, dear,” he says hoarsely as Jon runs a hand through his hair, pressing down on the locks which stand on end in the wake of restless sleep. “And thank you for the tea.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jon whispers, bending over to kiss Martin’s too-hot forehead. “You should probably take these as well—”

Reaching toward the nightstand, he grabs the box of tissues and tosses them into Martin’s lap before crawling back into bed himself. As Jon rearranges the blanket around them, Martin immediately presses up against him and tips his head to rest on his bony shoulder—a sure sign that he’s not feeling well at all.

“I’m sorry you’re ill, love,” Jon hums lowly, pressing a kiss into Martin’s hair.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Martin replies, pausing for a moment to sniff wetly. “I’m sorry I’m ill on our first married Christmas.”

Jon can’t help but huff out a laugh at this.

“You know what I’ve just remembered?”

“What?”

“The Christmas you got ill while you were living in the archives,” he says, smile evident in his tone. “Do you remember?”

“Oh god, I thought I would die of embarrassment,” Martin moans, turning his face to nuzzle into Jon’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Jon argues, determined to let this be an amusing memory rather than an embarrassing one.

“That’s because _you_ were nearly plastered the whole time,” Martin says, picking up his head to look at Jon, eyes sparkling good-naturedly.

“Wh—I was not _plastered!”_ Jon sputters indignantly as Martin laughs.

“ _Nearly_ plastered. And I have a feeling you don’t remember it all anyway. So let me tell it to you.”

“Fine, fine,” Jon gives in with a smile, planting a kiss on Martin’s cheek. “Tell me everything, darling.”

\---

(December 2016)

It’s holiday season at the Magnus Institute, and Tim has single-handedly decided that this will be their biggest celebration yet. Martin knows he’s doing it in a gesture of kindness; knows that the very existence of this massive extravaganza is an effort to bring the holidays to him, since he cannot leave the archives—yet he finds himself struggling through every smile, every drink, every song.

_God, I’d give anything not to be ill right now._

His illness has been steadily worsening over the past few days, starting with a light dripping from his nose into his throat, lowering his voice a bit for the day. Not that he had particularly minded this—the voice dysphoria that often plagued him was quite pleased, in fact, but he could do without the soreness that tempted him into coughing near constantly. The days following had been spent battling ever-growing congestion—sinuses packed full, lungs not far behind. It was particularly irritating to him that this would happen now, during the holidays, after he hasn’t even seen the outside world for months. No one in the archives has been ill so far this season, so where could he have possibly picked this up?

_Probably just a bit run down._

_Something got me that didn’t hit whoever carried it in._

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he leans back in his chair, watching the party around him as he desperately sniffs back the wetness threatening to drip from his nose. Of course, he had taken every possible precaution—loading himself fully with decongestants, cough suppressants, and fever-reducers, but it seems it might all have been for naught. Admittedly, most of the medications had been expired, having sat in the office first aid kit for years. He hadn’t been able to go to the chemist himself, and refused to even consider asking anyone to pick some things up for him. It had already been embarrassing enough asking Sasha to bring him some tampons—though of course she had been lovely, it was not an experience he wished to repeat.

He takes a shaking breath.

_Just stop thinking about it._

_Just have a drink, and maybe you’ll be alright._

Tim and Sasha are dominating the makeshift dance floor, both of their hair peppered with sparkling confetti, Tim’s neck adorned with garland and tinsel. The way their bodies move so freely, so naturally with the music, grinning drunkenly at one another all the while can’t but melt Martin’s expression into a fond smile. Catching his eye for a moment, Tim winks at him—grin spreading even wider, and pulling a blush onto Martin’s cheeks.

_Prick_ , he thinks, smiling back through his beet red flush.

Scanning further to the left, he finds Jon standing against the wall, cornered by the bloke from research Martin _knows_ fancies him. He squints a bit at the two of them, trying to read Jon’s expression, relieved to find a bit of discomfort there before—

Jon _laughs_. Heartily, and with a rare, gorgeous smile across his face.

Martin feels as if he could sink into the floorboards.

_What is wrong with you?_

_Jon has a right to date whoever he damn well pleases._

_Not like you’d ever have a chance anyway._

He sighs, but the breath catches in his chest, pulling him into a painful coughing fit—hastily stifled behind both his elbow and his closed lips. As he attempts to get himself under control, he glances back around the room, hoping no one has seen him—and with no small measure of dismay, notices that Tim and Sasha are approaching his table, arm in arm.

_Shit shit shit_

He sniffs hastily between coughs, swiping his sleeve over his dripping nose, disgusted with himself even as he does so. Mercifully, he manages to control the fit by the time they’ve really gotten close, reaching out for his drink at once to calm the raging furnace of his throat.

“Martin! There he is, the man of the hour,” Tim booms delightedly, sitting on the folding chair nearest him and pulling Sasha into his lap with a surprised shout.

“Tim! Shame on you,” she teases, swatting at his arm playfully.

“You love it and you know it,” he grins, nuzzling into her shoulder.

Martin uses their distraction as an opportunity to turn away, sniffling urgently against the rising buzz stirring up beneath the bridge of his nose, reverberating through packed sinuses. When he sees them peripherally turning their attention back to him, he plasters a smile back on his face, tipping his pounding head as casually as possible onto one fist.

“Having a good time?” Tim asks, resting his chin on Sasha’s shoulder.

“Y-Yeah! Yeah, it’s great, Tim, really nice job,” he says, trying to force his voice back into somewhat of his normal register.

“Fantastic! Can’t have you missing the holidays, can we? Now that would be a true tragedy!” he replies, clapping Martin jovially on the back.

Martin pitches forward at once, fighting back against his lungs, ready to burst with the jostling.

_Not now not now not now_

“You alright, Martin?” Sasha asks softly, still running a hand distractedly through Tim’s hair.

Offering her a quick smile, he nods vigorously against a few choked-back coughs, grabbing his drink at once and gulping it down. It barely helps, but it’s enough to get him through the worst of the painful tickling, though his eyes begin to tear with effort.

“Fine, fine, sorry—just choked on something, I dunno,” he lies, voice coming out in a bit of a croak.

“Well you’d better not choke and die before it’s time for karaoke!” Tim bellows. “Couldn’t stand to miss your lovely tenor!”

Martin quirks up a smile at this, blushing at the compliment, as always. Tim knows exactly how to push his buttons, and revels in it.

“We’ll see if there’s anyone still here who’s not too drunk to sing by then,” Sasha replies. “I believe I’m well past that point already.”

“Aw, come on Sasha, you can never be _too_ drunk to sing karaoke! That’s what makes it great!”

They continue arguing like this for a while, and Martin finds his attention drifting back to Jon, who still stands against the far wall. A second person has joined in the conversation with him and the man from research, and Jon’s discomfort seems to have risen again, eyes flitting about for an exit route. 

Then they lock on Martin’s.

Martin gives a little gasp, face flushing, the buzzing building in his sinuses at the disturbance. Looking away quickly, he hopes to god that Jon had not seen him staring, but when he looks back, Jon is already crossing the room toward him.

_Oh shit._

The pulsing of his sinuses only continues to grow—of course Jon would be coming to talk to him now, when he’s a right mess, when he can feel congestion rising in his nose and throat.

_I have to get out of here,_ he decides, extracting himself abruptly from the table.

“Hey, where are you going?” Tim calls after him, but Martin cannot bring himself to turn around—making a beeline for the men’s bathroom with all the energy he can muster.

As he ducks into the room, he sweeps his eyes around to check for any other occupants before grabbing desperately at the paper towels hanging over the sink. He barely lifts them in time to catch the painful sneezes that double him over—immediately causing his head to spin, coming one after the other in wet, heaving bursts. When at last his nose allows him to rest, he sinks down onto the floor of the bathroom, back braced against the wall. With all the effort he can summon, he does his best to clear his sinuses of their ghastly blockage—to no avail, the force of the breaths merely pushing his lungs into yet another coughing fit.

_God, this is miserable._

It is in the midst of this coughing that the door opens, revealing Jon—who stares down at him in shock, frozen in the doorway for several seconds. Martin is quite certain he would rather sink beneath the earth, never to return than to be caught here in this moment.

_Oh god oh god oh god_

“…Martin? Are you alright?” Jon asks at last, recovering himself a bit and closing the door behind him.

“I-I’b fi— _heh_ —” is all Martin can manage, consonants rounded out with congestion before his breath begins to hitch, desperately rubbing at his nose to keep control of itself while Jon watches him.

Jon furrows his brow, apparently unimpressed with this performance of “fine.” Crouching down slowly on the ground beside him, he peers concernedly into Martin’s face, which instantly flares up with heat.

_I’m in hell. I’ve died, and this is hell._

“What is it?” Jon asks, so softly that Martin feels his heart could burst. “Are you ill?”

_Damn it all._

If Jon has managed to guess the truth upon seeing him, Martin supposes there’s no way to hide it from him now—so he settles instead for trivialization.

“It’s fide, Jod—dod’ worry,” he croaks, wincing at his own pronunciation and sniffing in response.

_Great. Excellent. Truly convincing._

“Hmm,” Jon replies articulately, before pressing the cool back of his palm to Martin’s scorching forehead—nearly killing Martin on the spot with the shock of it.

_Oh Christ oh Christ_

Jon pulls his hand back with a displeased huff, and a violent fever chill runs up the length of Martin’s spine.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he demands, short and snappish.

Something about his tone tingles at the back of his mind, drawing the words from him unbidden.

“Because…because I didn’t want to ruin the holiday, and Tim was so kind to set up this big party so I could celebrate, and I just…I just couldn’t bear the thought of spoiling it,” he says, the words spilling out of him in a rush. 

He immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, gasping in horror at his own honesty. Jon looks about as shocked as he feels, alcohol undoubtedly leaving his expression unguarded.

“Wh—I…Martin, I—”

Jon is saved from his stammering by a fit of heavy sneezing, hastily stifled into Martin’s pathetic little hoard of paper towels. Disturbed by the sudden convulsions, his chest begins to flutter into a coughing fit once again—a bit harder to stifle now due to the sheer force of it. When at last he is allowed a brief respite, he leans his head back against the wall, breaths wet and heaving as he fights against the renewed dizziness.

“Christ, that sounds awful,” Jon mutters, reaching up to hand him more paper towels.

“Thadks,” Martin replies hoarsely, both in response to the paper towels and the insult.

Jon watches concernedly for a few moments, worrying at his bottom lip while Martin rubs the paper against the tender inflammation of his nose, desperately trying to ease the constant buzzing.

“Look, Martin, you’re not well—” Jon begins, before cutting himself off. “I-I mean, you know that, of course you know that, but—”

He breaks off again, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“I’ve got some medicine in my office. Do you think you could make it back there?”

Martin huffs out a laugh before beginning to stand.

“’Course I can, Jon, I’m not—" he pauses when yet another wave of dizziness washes over him, bracing against the wall where he stands.

Jon reaches out his arms on instinct, but Martin brushes them off at once.

“Sorry, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

When Martin looks back at him, Jon is staring at him with so much open concern that it steals his breath away.

_God, he’s gorgeous._

“I’m sure. Th-thank you,” he stammers awkwardly, allowing Jon to lead him back through the outskirts of the party and into the quiet of his office.

Once they’ve arrived, Jon ushers him in quickly, flicking on the desk lamp as he does so. The peacefulness that comes with the closed door is enough to make Martin sigh in contentment, watching distantly as Jon begins to rummage through a cabinet in search of the meds.

“Sit down, Martin,” he orders simply, no heat behind his words.

Martin can’t help but oblige, sinking onto the chair they use when people come to give their statements. As he does so, the pressure in his nose begins to build again, threatening to break through the surface at any moment—and he feels it’s only fair to at least try to avoid a mess.

“J-Jon, d’you— _heh_ —d’you have ti— _hh_ —”

“Right, right, of course, here—”

Jon fumbles hurriedly with a box of tissues that he pulls from the cabinet, nearly dropping them in his haste to hand them to Martin in time. By some miracle, he manages—Martin immediately doubles over into a fit of violent, unforgiving sneezes, which morph steadily into coughing, and then back into sneezing—caught in a seemingly endless cycle of misery. When at last he is able to look up, eyes streaming, Jon has fetched him a glass of water, and holds out a small pile of pills for him to take.

“Here, better hurry before it starts up again,” Jon mutters, shoving his offerings abruptly into Martin’s hands.

“O-oh—thanks,” he stammers, hot shame flooding his cheeks as he swallows them down.

When he looks up, Jon is chewing at his bottom lip again, brows furrowed—an expression that Martin has learned means he’s considering his words carefully. It’s one of those expressions that endears Jon so much to him that he could just get lost in it—and perhaps he does, for he startles at the noise when Jon finally speaks.

“Martin, I—I’m not asking this to pry, a-and it’s none of my business, but—but I’m just…concerned. Are you…are you wearing a binder right now?” Jon asks quietly rubbing a thumb into his own collarbone in a gesture of anxiety.

_Fuck._

_…I didn’t think he knew._

Instinctively, Martin hunches his shoulders forward, crossing his arms tightly—the mere mention of his chest enough to drag his dysphoria to the surface at the moment.

“N-No, I’m not—shouldn’t when you’re ill,” Martin mutters quickly, dropping his gaze quickly to the floor.

Jon lets out a small sigh of relief.

“Good, that’s good, I—” he breaks off, clearly noticing Martin’s change in posture. “—oh. Martin, I-I’m sorry, did I—”

“It’s alright, it’s not your fault,” Martin cuts in, trying to offer him a small smile. “And it’s…it’s thoughtful of you to ask. Erm.”

He looks back up at last, willing to do anything to make this even just a bit less awkward. What he finds when he does so is not a face overwhelmed with discomfort—but rather one softened with worry, and blushing with…something else as well, though Martin wouldn’t dare to put a name on it. He can’t help the wry smile that pulls one corner of his mouth upward.

“Jon, how many have you had tonight?” he asks, a bit teasingly.

“How many…how many what? Alcoholic beverages?” Jon replies, tilting his head in confusion.

Martin can’t help but laugh properly at this, for which he is thoroughly punished when it turns into a heavy coughing fit.

“Christ, Martin, I-I’m sorry,” Jon stammers, arms reaching out, then floating back to his sides repeatedly, unsure of the proper action to take.

Martin waves him off at once.

“It’s alright, it was rather nice to have a laugh,” still smiling through labored breaths.

Jon can’t help but quirk up a smile in return, face flooding with heat before he hurriedly looks back down.

“Erm—right.”

He coughs awkwardly before continuing.

“W-Well, is there…what else can I do? To help, I mean?”

_He’s adorable._

_God help me._

“Nothing, nothing—thank you for the meds, I—I suppose we should head back out to the party,” he says, rising slowly from the chair.

“Absolutely not,” Jon says sternly. “I’m taking you to bed, and that’s the end of it.”

Martin’s eyes go wide, another laugh threatening to bubble up in his chest at this choice of words. For Jon not to notice it…that must mean he’s pretty far gone. The way he stands now, tiny and cross and blocking the door, tells Martin that he ought to just give in and save himself the trouble.

“Alright, alright,” he complies, raising his hands. “But that means you’ll have to talk to Tim, and you _know_ he gets weepy when he’s drunk.”

Jon nods his head in acceptance, with such solemnity that Martin has to cover his mouth to hide his foolish grin.

_Oh, Jon._

“I’ll talk to him. Just…just try to get some sleep, alright?” Jon replies, grabbing Martin’s hand as he passes by to step into the hallway.

Martin’s face instantly becomes a wide-eyed tomato, and Jon drops his hand at once, stepping back clumsily.

“Sorry, erm…I’ll…I’ll see you on Monday,” he screeches before bolting back into the crowd.

Left in the wake of this, Martin can’t help but laugh and savor the feeling of Jon’s hand in his.

\---

(present day)

“Oh _god,”_ Jon moans, face buried in his hands.

Martin laughs hysterically now, wrapping his arms around Jon’s shoulders as his entire body shakes with laughter.

“Sorry love—I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” he giggles, wiping the tears beginning to stream down his face.

“Glad to hear my _mortification_ is so funny to you, Martin,” he huffs, pouting dramatically and crossing his arms over his chest.

Martin swings a leg over him, straddling his thin form and leaning down to cup his face.

“Oh, silly me, did I forget to say ‘adorable?’”

He kisses Jon’s forehead.

“’Handsome?’”

He kisses his jaw.

“’Charming?’”

This time, Jon wraps his arms around Martin’s neck, pulling him in for a proper kiss—smiling against him when he lets out a soft noise of pleasure. Jon parts his lips in response, coaxing Martin deeper, cherishing the way he can feel the warmth of his body growing ever warmer above him. Pulling him back down beside him, he tangles his body up in Martin’s, passion intertwining with the gentle softness Martin always offers him. Several minutes pass by this way, and Jon starts to think he could lie here forever, just lazily kissing in their bed. When Martin at last breaks it off, it’s with such urgency that Jon can tell instantly a sneeze is on the horizon.

“Here,” he says wryly, plucking a tissue from the box and handing it to him.

Martin takes it as graciously as possible, face continuing to screw up as his breaths hitch. At last, he lets it go—turning away from Jon a bit as he sneezes once, twice, thrice into the tissue, and finishing with moan as he rubs at his sinuses.

“Bless you,” Jon whispers, propped up on one elbow and rubbing soothing circles over his chest.

Turning back now, Martin grimaces up at him.

“I’ve probably gotten you ill now, Jon. We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh, we shouldn’t?” Jon teases, kissing a trail down Martin’s jawline and into his neck, pleased at the way this makes him squirm.

“I rather think we should keep going,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at him, lips barely hovering above Martin’s own.

With a grin so full of love he’s fit to burst, Martin pulls him back down—and they spend the rest of the day in such warmth as can only be found in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> well there you have it! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. thanks so much for stopping by, and I hope your day is fantastic <3


End file.
